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“I have not found the occasion to make brownies, but the internet is surely full of great recipes where the author tells their life story before getting to the actual fucking recipe,” he joked.
“You’regoing to makemebrownies?” I clarified, feeling wary and waiting for impact.
“Yes, Fiona.” Kip pulled the throw from the back of the sofa and draped it over me, leaning in to wipe a tear from my cheek before he stood up. “Now watch your movie,” he ordered before walking out of the room.
I was so stunned, I did as he said, quickly losing myself in the magic of Hogwarts. Although I didn’t completely sink in, listening to Kip in the kitchen, clanging bowls around. I found I liked this. Being curled up on the sofa, warm and safe, the sun setting against the ocean, the sounds of life in my house. The sounds of another person. Soon, there was a deep and rich smell of chocolate emanating from the kitchen.
Then Kip was walking into the living room with a plate piled high of brownies, smelling like they came from heaven—or Nora’s bakery, which was the same place—and perking me up even more than HP had.
“Gimme,” I said desperately, propping myself up.
He handed me the plate, which I rested on my stomach. I grabbed a brownie, shoving it into my mouth.
“Oh my god,” I moaned, mouth still full of brownie. “These are good. Fucking great.”
I wasn’t lying.
Kip was no slouch in the kitchen. Everything he made me was wonderful. But I didn’t think he was the baking type.
I was wrong.
And I’d been so distracted with all the chocolatey goodness that I didn’t realize Kip wasn’t retreating now that he’d quieted the hysterical pregnant woman with brownies and preteen wizards.
No, he sat on the end of the sofa, grasping my legs and pulling them so they rested in his lap.
“What are you doing?” I asked, halfway through the second brownie. I tried to pull my feet back, but his grip was too tight.
“Shh,” he said. “I’m watching this guy do something with that stick.” He gestured to the screen with one hand, the other rubbing my foot.
Then, the second joined in. Then, my eyes rolled to the back of my head as his strong fingers found the right spot.
Even though I should’ve had a lot of questions, I didn’t ask them. I let Kip rub my feet while I ate brownies and watchedHarry Potter.
fourteen
The Crash
When I woke,I did it with hope.
Everyone had said Kip would come around once the reality of the baby set in, once he got out of his own way. Well, everyone had said that at the start, all certain and sure. But as the weeks wore on, I saw my—and his—friends slowly doubt themselves and those declarations. But they didn’t abandon them completely. Even Nora, amongst all her fury at him, had remained hopeful for that miracle.
Me?
Nah.
I tended to believe people when they showed the worst of themselves. Now, that didn’t mean I wrote them off because of that. The worst parts of me could be pretty fucking bad. But when people showed only the worst parts of themselves without anything to redeem that—like my first husband, for example—you would be best served to believe it.
I’d learned that the hard way.
So, I did not have hope that Kip would come around.
Except for last night.
He’d looked at me and woken up something I thought was long dead. He made me brownies. He put onHarry Potter. He sat on the sofa with me and rubbed my feet. And he had obviously carried me to bed, because the last thing I remembered was contemplating a fourth brownie, Harry fighting Professor Quirrell/Voldemort, and Kip’s fingers working my instep.
Now I was in my bed.
Not only had Kip been kind to me when I was overwhelmed and a mess, but he’d known the cure wasHarry Potterand had made brownies. From scratch. Not just that, he’d touched me, worked at my feet almost like… almost like a husband might with his pregnant wife.
